The Time Pirate

by Ted Bell

  “I was wondering—where are little Alex and Annabel?”

  “Already at Hawkesmoor, my family country house in Gloucestershire. And I plan for them to remain there for the duration.”

  Hobbes came rushing into the library with a sheaf of freshly developed prints.

  “Nick, my word! These photographs are outstanding, to say the very least. The close-ups of that new German Hertz mine design are invaluable. London intelligence analysts will fall off their stools. Have a look, Your Lordship.”

  Hawke looked through the prints, a wide smile on his face.

  “Well done, Nick, and obviously at great peril to yourself. These will be invaluable at our meeting in London.”

  “How did you come to spot that minelayer, Nick?” Hobbes asked.

  “I got lucky, Hobbes. I drifted off course and ended up halfway to France on my way home. That’s when I spotted the minelayer and those new mines.”

  “Who’s thirsty?” Lord Hawke said, pouring a tumbler of whiskey for himself.

  “I’d dearly love a cup of tea,” Nick said, suddenly realizing how hungry and thirsty he was, not having eaten in hours. “And maybe a sandwich?”

  “Coming right up,” Hobbes said, heading for the small lift and down to the pantry.

  “Nick, come over and take a peek through this telescope, would you?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Nick said and climbed atop a small stool so his eyes could reach the black rubber eyepieces. Hawke showed him how to adjust the focus rings.

  “What do you see?” Hawke asked.

  “A lovely old manor house, covered with ivy, sitting high atop Saint George’s Peak.”

  “Yes, quite right. Hobbes and I are going over to Guernsey this evening to a small dinner party at that very house. It’s called Fordwych Manor. And it’s the home of an old friend of mine. Founder of the Guernsey chapter of the Birdwatchers Society. She’s someone I want you to know.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Her name is Fleur de Villiers, code-named Flower, and she is a very important member in our little secret society. Baroness de Villiers collects all the weekly intelligence on Guernsey and passes it along to me. I in turn make sure that the information reaches the Prime Minister. But there’s a problem. Once I’m gone, she’ll need a contact here on Greybeard to forward the packets on to No. 10 Downing. I think you’re the logical chap to take my place. My thought was, you might use the Sopwith. Fly night flights and deliver them over to Portsmouth once a week. A motorcycle courier would be standing by to speed them up to London.”

  “Well, of course, anything you say, sir. I want to help in any way I can.”

  “Excellent. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Sir, if I may, isn’t Guernsey a bit dangerous for you and Hobbes, now that the island is crawling with German soldiers? I know that you’re both wanted in Berlin for espionage.”

  “Oh, they’ll come looking for us all right. As soon as they’ve set up their Guernsey headquarters and the Gestapo arrives. But tonight there shouldn’t be any problems. Mass confusion over there, one assumes.”

  Hobbes came in with a small tray.

  “Oh, there you are, Hobbes. After his tea, I thought we might take Nick down to the laboratory and show him some of those gadgets you’ve been working on for him all week.”

  “Gadgets?” Nick said, wolfing down his sandwich.

  “Come along, you’ll see!” Hobbes said.

  The threesome descended to the cellar in the lift and stepped out into the laboratory. Nick had been there many times and was long accustomed to the amazing array of scientific equipment that filled the room.

  “Over here,” Hobbes said. “I’ve laid out everything on this table.”

  “What’s this?” Nick said, looking at what appeared to be a wireless with a very large circular antenna.

  “Two-way radio. This large unit will go in the barn, or HQ as you now call it. I’ll install a much smaller receiver/transmitter in the Sopwith’s cockpit this afternoon. That way you and Gunner will be able to stay in communication whilst you’re aloft.”

  “Why that would be wonderful, Hobbes!”

  “And look here, Nick, this could come in handy.”

  He handed Nick an item that looked like a walkie-talkie with a large loop antenna on top.

  “What is it?”

  “Hand-held RDF. A radio detection finder. With this instrument, you’ll be able to navigate at night, in bad weather, or in fog. It will pick up the radio signal Gunner is sending from the barn and lead you straight home.”

  “Show him the trees?” Lord Hawke said. “My personal favorite.”

  “Trees?” Nick said.

  “Ah, yes, the wonderful trees,” Hobbes said. “I’m rather proud of them actually.” He pulled a canvas dropcloth off an object about five feet tall and three feet in diameter.

  “What do you think of that?” Hawke asked.

  “It’s a tree,” Nick said, perplexed.

  “True enough,” Hobbes said. “But no ordinary tree, I assure you. Look here, this tree actually rolls.”

  He gave the tree a shove and it rolled right over to Nick.

  Nick laughed. “A rolling tree. What on earth is this for?”

  “It was your sister Kate’s idea actually. She thought of the idea of rolling trees to disguise the airstrip. Gunner’s agreed to make many of these. Cut trees and bushes of every size and shape, mount them on rolling platforms, covered with moss. It’s a brilliant form of camouflage for our little secret airbase. When the landing strip is not in use, it will appear from the air to these nosy Germans to be simply more forest.”

  “From the air, they will have no idea it’s our runway! And the barn is invisible from the air.”

  “Precisely,” Hobbes said.

  “Hobbes,” Nick said, “I think Kate is a genius. I wonder what I would do without the two of you?”

  “Well, I, uh, really have no idea! But since you have me completely at your disposal, the question is quite rhetorical, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Hawke and Hobbes roared with laughter.

  “Hobbes, is the seaplane fueled and ready?” Hawke said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Then we’d best plan to take off no later than seven o’clock. You and Nick have work to do. But Baroness de Villiers is a right demon about her guests arriving at Fordwych Manor on time.”

  16

  ONE GOOD HAND AND ONE GOLD HOOK

  · Port Royal, Jamaica—August 1, 1781 ·

  Captain William Blood stalked the quarterdeck of his flagship 78-gun Revenge like a man with a fever in his brain. His brow furrowed, his one good hand and one gold hook held stiffly behind his back, he marched to and fro behind the helm, his polished Hessian boots clomping across the freshly holystoned teak, sometimes pausing to look out across the harbor with a rare flash of grim satisfaction.

  The evening sky above Port Royal was every shade of blood orange, flame, and purple as the sun sank fast beyond the far rim of the world. Blood eyed the masts and riggings of at least one hundred pirate ships, a thick forest of creaking timber etched in black against the flame. And every last one of them under his command.

  It was a sight normally calculated to give a hardened buccaneer like Captain Blood great comfort, yet he wanted still more ships in his burgeoning armada. There was still scarcely a week before his fortnight-long deadline expired. But he had no doubt that word of his rapidly growing Brethren of Blood was spread like a tropical wildfire throughout the islands of the Caribbean. For pirates, and men of that like, or ilk, it was gold, second only to hot blood, that was the only real magnet or attraction on this earth.

  There was a loud screech overhead. Old Bill paused and regarded the damnable birds. In the silence, as dusk fell, seven black ravens had perched on the mizzenmast boom above his head. It was surely a sign, Old Bill thought, a portent of things to come. But of what, he could not be sure. He’d seen good omens bring sorrow, and bad bring out the sun. Sti
ll, he was supremely confident of his plans to rule the seven seas. He was building a mighty fleet to overwhelming strength such as the world had never seen. But he had a bad feeling, a feeling even Jamaica rum couldn’t drive from the wrinkled recesses of his brain.

  He drew a pistol and fired, blasting the nearest bird into a cloud of feathers and a fine mist of blood. Oddly, the remaining six ravens held their position. Deaf, blind, or both, he decided, these winged intruders.

  He decided to let the rest remain, damn them all, and went about his business. Something beyond irksome was tickling the back of his mind, and he couldn’t for the life of him conjure up what to do about it.

  “Where be Snake Eye?” he suddenly asked the solemn mate standing watch at the stern rail. He’d just lit the twin whale-oil lanterns hanging from the port and starboard rails. And they cast a yellow glow upon his craggy features.

  “In his quarters, Captain, whittling away at his whalebone is what I’d imagine.”

  “Fetch him here, and quick-like.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” the mate said. He swallowed once, hard, and hurried below. Snake Eye was as evil a beast as ever walked this world, and he didn’t much like his evening privacy being disturbed when the ship was in port.

  Bill’s second-in-command appeared on the quarterdeck a few minutes later, whalebone and carving knife to hand. He gave his captain the evil eye and hissed, “Yes-s-s-s-s?”

  “I’ll have a word with you, if the artiste ain’t too busy with his bleedin’ masterpiece,” Blood said.

  Snake Eye stuck both the bone and the knife inside the crimson sash wrapped round his bare midsection and stared hard-eyed at his master and commander. He wasn’t afraid of him; he was afraid of no man. But down the centuries Blood had brought him riches beyond measure, and so he held his tongue. He had no intention of quarreling with his bread and butter.

  “Seem troubled of an evening,” the tattooed pirate muttered, cocking one slitted eye at the master of his fate.

  “Aye. Troubled indeed. Let’s repair to my cabin and have a private word. Me thoughts need airing out.”

  Snake Eye followed Old Bill down the dark narrow staircase that eventually led to Blood’s great cabin at the stern. The great sweeping banquette under the leaded glass of the many stern windows was upholstered in blood-red velvet, as were the gilded chairs and the draperies, too.

  Blood lit the many candles on the great crystal chandelier that hung above the round mahogany table at the center of the room. A rosy glow was cast over the two men. There were empty glasses, various charts and ship’s manifests and such lying about on the table, and the captain simply swept them all to the floor with a swipe of his arm.

  “Turn yer back,” Blood ordered his companion. Snake Eye dutifully turned his back to the table and stared out the windows at the harbor and the many lanterns glowing in the rigging of ships laying at anchor. This was not the first time Blood had protected one of his many secrets, although Snake Eye had been privy to them all for aeons.

  Keeping one eye on the Frenchman, Billy dropped to one knee and used his bejeweled hook to lift a small ring hidden under a loose floorboard.

  The table and the round section of floor it stood on instantly and silently inverted, revealing an identical table on the other side. Only this one had a heavy cast-iron chest bolted to the middle of the table. It had only one lock, a massive one, with no visible opening for a key.

  Blood pulled his key ring from his pocket, rattled it a bit deliberately so that Snake Eye could hear it, then dropped it back in his pocket. He then lifted the padlock, flipped it over, and opened a false back, hinged to the lock. He held his hook up to the flickering candlelight, saw the seven notches carved along the hook’s golden tip, and inserted the hook inside a small hole in the lock. He gave his hook a quick twist, then withdrew it. The hasp of the lock popped open.

  Bill removed the lock and opened the chest. Inside, on a regal red satin cushion sat one of the strangest devices ever created by mankind. It was a golden sphere, and so brilliant was its sheen under the candles that it seemed almost lit from within. The Tempus Machina. A time machine, one of only two, constructed by Leonardo da Vinci sometime in the late sixteen century. It had come into Blood’s possession during a mutiny aboard the English warship H.M.S. Merlin.

  But there was another. It was William Blood’s greatest desire in this life to possess both golden orbs. Then, forever after, he need fear no man, for he could always escape through time without fear of ever being followed. Until he possessed the two, his sleep would never be untroubled.

  “You can turn around,” he said, thrusting the orb into the air where its brilliance lit up the enter cabin.

  “Thinking of taking another time voyage, are ye then, mon capitaine?” Snake Eye said, eyes riveted on the magnificent machine.

  “Aye. Pull up a chair and uncork that flagon of rum. We’ve plans to lay, you and me, and we only have a week to accomplish all I desire. The armada parley is one week from today.”

  “And what do you desire, mon ami?”

  “What I desire . . . is everything,” Blood said without hesitation.

  “As always, I am your humble servant, who exists only to do your bidding.”

  “Look me in the eye, then, damn you! What be the name of this here vessel?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Yes, Revenge. That’s what I desire, you old demon. I named her so because of my heart’s desire. And revenge is what I shall seek, nay, shall wreak upon my enemies. And mark you, I will soon avenge my honor on that cursed English dog, Lord Hawke. The blackguard who took me good right hand for claiming what was rightfully mine. Him and that cursed boy, too, that little hellion who even now possesses the second golden orb. What be his name?”

  “McIver. Nicholas McIver,” Snake Eye said, his strange features furrowed with anger. He, too, wanted revenge, following a disastrous run-in with the McIver boy aboard the English ship.

  “That’s him, all right. And his time has come, too.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “Why, to lure him and his precious orb down here to Port Royal. Where I shall duly relieve him of his golden ball, and his head as well.”

  “You’ve hatched a scheme?”

  “I was formulating just such ideas whilst I walked the quarterdeck. I have it now. And you and me will carry it out.”

  “Lure him, then? We’ll need good bait for the trap.”

  “Aye, and it’s that bait we’re going to fetch!”

  “Where might we be headed?”

  “You may perhaps remember a pestilential English island called Greybeard, rising from the sea like a barnacle off the coast of France?”

  “I do, but I’d give blood and silver to forget it. ‘Tis where you lost yer hand, sire, and ‘twas there we lost that beautiful crimson-colored warship, Mystère, and incurred the wrath of Napoleon.”

  For the first time all evening, Blood’s thin lips curved into an evil smile. “That’s ancient history, shipmate. I think this time you may enjoy our visit a bit more,” Old Bill said, and, tilting his head back for a draught of rum, he laughed his strange high-pitched laugh and drained the last of the rum.

  17

  BLOOD, TOIL, TEARS, AND SWEAT

  · London, June 1940 ·

  Winston Churchill stood to welcome his three guests. They’d arrived at the luncheon hour, so the Prime Minister had decided to receive them in the small dining room at No. 10 Downing Street. It was, he felt, a perfect place for a quiet meeting with his dear nephew, Lord Richard Hawke, his colleague, the brilliant Commander Hobbes, and the young McIver boy, whom Churchill well remembered for his brave exploits involving an experimental Nazi U-boat a few months prior.

  The room was paneled in warm golden walnut and had a small oval mahogany table that would do nicely for four people. The prime minister loved this room for many reasons, but especially the lovely bust of Sir Isaac Newton that stood in a window just above the fireplace. Whenever a n
ewcomer came to dine, Churchill made sure he worked one of his favorite and oft-repeated jokes into the conversation.

  “That bust is of Sir Isaac Newton, you know,” Winston would say, “chap who discovered gravity. I’ve often wondered, where would we be without him! Floating around like balloons?” He’d then take a big puff on his cigar, enjoying the polite laughter that was sure to follow.

  His three guests were ushered in, and Churchill rose from his chair and moved toward the door to greet them. He took Hawke’s hand first, saying, “Ah, my dashing young nephew. Welcome, sir, to my new quarters. Quite fashionable, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” Hawke said, shaking his hand. “But first I must ask you, now that you’re Prime Minister, may I still call you Uncle Winston?”

  “My dear boy, you can call me anything you damn well please! And look, here is Commander Hobbes. Wonderful to see you again, my good fellow. We’re going to need your services desperately in this war. And who is this? Why, I believe it’s young Nick McIver unless I’m very much mistaken. Aren’t you the lad who discovered and captured that monstrous German U-boat in the Channel Islands?”

  “Well, s—sir, I suppose I played a small part in that, but the real credit must go to Commander Hobbes and my sister Kate, who—”

  “There, there, Nick. No room for false modesty in this house. And never let the truth stand in the way of a good story. We’re all heroes here—or we’ll soon need to be, at any rate. Come sit down, and have some of this delicious potted hare. One of my favorites.”

  Hawke sat directly across from his uncle, and Nick and Hobbes took the chairs at either end of the table. He sat back and regarded his famous relative, finding him to be in amazingly good spirits, considering how badly the war was going.

  German troops had marched into Poland on September 1, 1939. The war his uncle had so clearly foreseen had begun. On September 3, Great Britain and France had declared war on Germany, and the then–Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain had at once named Churchill first lord of the admiralty, notifying the fleet with this simple message: “Winston is back.”